


Ignis Aurum Probat

by Operamatic



Category: Sym-Bionic Titan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Operamatic/pseuds/Operamatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during The Steel Foe.  Laying around half naked in a train compartment, Ilana tries to figure out what it is she wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignis Aurum Probat

Ilana’s heartbeat drums in her ears, matching the thrum of the train’s engines.  She stares at the ceiling of their compartment; the obnoxious fluorescent lights left off to better help them sleep.

But she knows sleep will not come.  It never does when she needs it to.

She is all too aware of Lance, shirtless again.  She can see him, near enough to touch, yet achingly distant.  She can see him past the slope of her breasts, the valley of her stomach, the curve of her thighs and the peaks of her knees.  Her feet can almost absorb the heat that radiates off him.

She’s discovered Lance is like a furnace, a constant fire burning from the core outward even to his farthest extremities.  He puts out a heat that reminds her of the massive fireplace in her palace bedroom.  It is intense.

But comforting.

She reaches her foot out, gently, so as not to startle him.  Even in the most mundane of activities, like brushing his teeth, his muscles are tensed, ready to spring and coil in action.  She runs along the thick muscles of his back with her big toe.

He has yet to say anything.

But he must notice her.  He must have been noticing her these last few weeks.  Her head upon his shoulder.  Her fingers tentatively twining with his.  Her breath against his ear.

Ilana worries it is loneliness.  That the twisting in her stomach and her chest are only the illusions of attraction.  Could it be that with Octus gone, she needs to keep Lance close?  Does she need to touch him to make sure he is still there?  Does she need to cling to him in _that_ way?  The way that she hopes might confirm his loyalty, if not his devotion?

Her foot makes its way up his toned sides, along his ribs, to the bony protrusion of his spine.  She follows it with the ball of her foot, the tendons tensed, her toes spread to better traverse the smooth expanse of his shoulder blade.

If it were only loneliness, she thinks, would it still be valid?  Wouldn’t she still feel something?  To feel anything beyond sorrow and shame, wouldn’t it be worth it?

She blinks, and Lance has turned to look at her, his eyes and the slant of his nose just visible above his meaty shoulder.  He’s looking right at her, and she sees how tired his eyes are.

The gaze, though, is like steel.

 

She swallows carefully as his eyes move towards her foot, which has come to rest against the top of his spine, the bone there prominent while his head is bowed forward.  Her breath catches as he carefully, so very carefully, shifts so that his whole body, smooth chest and all, is facing her and her ankle is cradled in the crook between shoulder and neck.  She resists the urge to twine her toes into his hair.  She exhales open mouthed as his chin glides centimeters above the purple lace of her bra.

They shouldn’t fit together like this.

His face is poised above hers now.  His right hand beside her head, his left burning the skin on her thigh.  His hips are so dangerously close to hers she’s not sure whether it would be wiser to shift away or give in and crush herself against him.  He stares into her eyes the same stare.  As if he’s awaiting orders.  As if he’s not sure what to do next, but ready to do it regardless.

She stares back, willing herself to match his furor, his determination.  She dares him with her eyes and waits with held breath for his response.

“Is this…” he says, but his voice cracks, dry and taut.  He swallows, brow furrowing, “Is this what you want?”

She gives him a questioning look, her lips parting.

“I mean is this…” he grunts in frustration, words failing him, “Is this okay?  Are you okay with this…with…”

“Us?” she offers, her own voice sounds so small in the darkened room, muffled from the falling snow and the humming engines and the pressure building between their bodies.

“Because just tell me,” he inhales, slowly, trying to send blood back to his brain from farther reaches, “and I’ll go back to my bunk.  I won’t try this again.”

Ilana exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding.  She reaches up to touch his face, caress his ear, stroke his hair.  She lifts her head, which feels both heavy and light somehow, and places her mouth against Lance’s bottom lip.  His skin sears her own lips, and she wonders if she feels cool to him in comparison.

“This is my answer.  This is good.  We are good.”

She closes her eyes and sighs against him, letting her hands trail up his sinewy arms and wrap herself tighter around him.  Her leg has somehow made its way into his hand, and he methodically sets it against his waist, large palm coming up to cup the rounded flesh of her bottom.  She hears him groan, though, when he grinds himself into her groin.  The heat and hardness of him, even through his jeans, is suddenly all the more real, pressed against her, making her sweat.

She gasps and lets her head fall back, unable to process all the things both Lance and her own body are asking of her.  Lance, though, is an opportunist.  Ilana feels his breath against her breasts and does her best not to shake as he pushes the bra downwards around her ribs.  She couldn’t have expected him to figure out how to undo it, and this was a faster, simpler tactic. 

Ilana does not have time to muse on this though, because his mouth is on her, his tongue leaving scorching trails along her skin, his arousal rubbing through rough fabric against her own.  Her mind goes terrifyingly blank when he sucks hungrily at her nipple, then moves to the other, leaving the first cold against the air of the train car.

For the first time, Ilana lets out a moan, long and guttural, gripping the sides of Lance’s head, pulling at the long, shaggy hair that she thinks now maybe she’d always wanted to touch.  Perhaps in response, he kisses the junction of her collarbone, his hands touching lightly, tenderly along her sides, her arms, her hips.  One comes to rest at her breast, the other clutching firmly on her rump. 

She bends her head towards his face, taking her own initiative, lips glancing along the sharp incline of his nose before catching his mouth again.  Somewhere between the primal grinding and soft touches, Ilana realizes this is a battle.  Of will or passion or dominance, she’s not sure.  But she knows it isn’t a battle either of them will win.  Rather it is to see who can deal the most damage before the inevitable détente.

She is determined to make her mark on his forces, and reaches between them to grasp his penis through his jeans.  She grips him hard and his breath catches against her mouth.  She reevaluates her approach and slides her hand carefully, fingers featherlike, along the slick skin at the belt before delving underneath denim and cotton to run along the silky flesh there.

Her heart clenches as he whispers her name the way he always does.  The _l_ stands out, as if his tongue loves finding its way around it, much like her skin.  The word comes out in a ragged whisper though, a call for armistice. 

She does not yield just yet, pressing against his mouth, relishing as he rolls her atop him and fists a hand in her short hair.

The next part happens quickly and wordlessly.  Clothing is shucked, small kisses shared across stretches of skin.  Ilana would perhaps consider with slight embarrassment her nudity were it not for Lance’s hands roaming her like a second skin.

And suddenly she’s poised above him.  Those parts of them, those kept secret and sacred, are stroking together and she rolls her head a bit at the sensation.  She opens her eyes to take in his expression.

His jaw is tight, brows drawn low, lips a thin line of anticipation and restraint.

She bends down, kissing those tight lips once, twice, and a third time before letting herself sink and stiffen.

She doesn’t cry, though it stings and burns.  She bites her lip hard, lets him run a hand along her face, and doesn’t flinch when he shifts upwards to touch their foreheads together.  There are no sweet nothings.  There’s nothing to be said.

In the brief moments of respite, Ilana thinks she understands.  This was never about loneliness, never about shame.  This has always been just about the two of them.  This isn’t a mistake. 

This isn’t wrong.

Lance twines his strong arms around her waist; they rock together with the motion of the train until they find a rhythm, slow at first, then more fervent.  She feels a tightness building all the way from her chest to the place where they are joined, coiling like a spring.

He grips her hips with his hands now, grunting.  She laces her fingers into the hair at his nape, panting.

He thrusts up, she pushes down.

A stroke of skin, a clench of muscle.

He growls and bows his head against her collarbone, uneven breaths heating the skin there.  She can feel him emptying, his skin convulsing under her touch.

Ilana tries to continue, unsure where she begins and ends, until Lance crushes her close to him, bites her shoulder and rolls their hips together again.

She throws her head back.  Her body shudders unto her bones.  Ilana forgets how to breathe.

And instead melts.

 

 

 

Ilana awakes, her eyes opening to the same view of the ceiling.  Her heartbeat has slowed considerably, pulsing loudly between breaths.  Her head is pillowed against Lance’s arm, their feet entwined together and dangling over the edge of the bunk. 

She turns her gaze to her companion.  Asleep, she notes, snoring loudly, but not unpleasantly.

She places her lips against the side of his mouth and lets them linger there for a moment, feeling his breath on her cheek.

The warmth is intense.

But comforting.


End file.
